Manhattan Progression

Quiescence:
Silence and darkness

never take Manhattan

but at 3:30 Monday

morning they stake

a claim on the island

and brace for attack.

Portland, fly ash,

slag and aggregate

groan and weep

in the shadows
above carbon arc

and incandescence.

The wounds inflicted

by decades of Checker

and Crown Vic abuse

have a moment to heal

and sometimes,

in those early hours,

you can even dream.

Crescendo:
The tenuous stillness

of dawn is eroded

by the tin horns

of steel cattle

as they herd

through the tunnels.

The Midtown, Battery

Holland and Lincoln

belch rubber and chrome,

and foul the unruffled

air of daybreak.

The city's veins

course, and crisscross

with Pullman cars

and the pressure rises

in step with the sun.

Hundred year old

bridges sag under

the weight of Detroit

and Tokyo wheels

and disillusionment

begins to replace dreams.

Chaos:
Subway steps erupt

with molten commuters

that bubble up

and out across the city.

The irresistible flow

washes over the cars

and buses locked in

their cross town crawl.

Soft associations

form and disband

at every intersection

then resume

their persistent crush.

A symphony of whistles,

horns and profanity

shakes the air and

reverberates off

the canyon walls.

The motion accelerates,

and overwhelms

the asphalt maze,

in an indistinguishable

blur of colors,

'til all that remains

are the agile nightmares

of midday Manhattan.

Roadside Assistance

You were a top down
drive up the coast
and I hugged each curve
like it was my first and last;
your luxury so foreign
to my economic hands
and domestic heart.

The time skipped past
with dotted line persistence
and dark glasses concealed
my doubts and your tears

When the road turned
inland I let the wheel go
and we began to drift
into the oncoming traffic.
I never thought about
checking the mileage
until we ran out of gas
and I left you stranded
on the side of the road.

Losing Faith

Manhattan is a grey and grand
alter to a monochrome god that I
no longer care to worship. I don’t
sing hallelujah with the bums in
Madison Square and my tithes
are going for hair dye and a new
convertible. I once was lost but
now I’ve found that the subway is
cheaper than cabs and a helluva
lot faster at rush hour. St. Anselm

once told me he could think of no

place better but my faith has

more than a few cracks and I

can’t begin to conceive what he

was thinking. I was seduced by

Wall Street and all night bars

only to wake with a headache,

rumpled clothes and a few new

dents in my self-respect. I’m just

another temple whore a little bit

past my expiration with bad

apartment and very high rent.

Is there true salvation beyond

the Hudson or did the New York

Times really kill God?

Jordaan

Jordaan

I found myself standing on a bridge over the Prinsengracht canal in the disconnected calm of three coffee bar joints and the cool predawn air. The click of Rembrandt’s footsteps still echo down the cobbles at that hour. Once, long ago, I dreamt of the scene, the moment; fog dancing across the warm canal water. I thought back to the person I was when that dream was formed and I realized that I missed him. He was young and idealistic, so unafraid, with a swagger that could only come from hubris and ignorance.

The damp morning air sat on the shoulders of my jacket and I remember watching a young Dutch couple fend off the chilly dark, oblivious to the painter and me as we took it all in. The distance between that boy and the man that I would become seems so much greater than the twenty five years it took to travel. That boy’s dreams have turned into my sad reminiscence, a longing for that time before disbelief and defeat; the un-jaded days of wonder lost along the way. I wanted to see Amsterdam before I died; I realize now that it’s too late.

Flight to Boca

God flew south last week

and left the city in tears,

the fall of man is a season

to prepare for the days

of discontent that lie ahead.

The shrieks of children

will die away, replaced

by the rustle of dead leaves

and the bleak quiescence

of winter’s inevitable return.

Emboldened steam ghosts

rising from cracked streets

will dance in celebration;

released from the obscurity

of the warm days gone by.

The pace of pedestrians

once easy and unhurried

will quicken against the wind

as scarves replace bright eyes
and effortless smiles.

The blue skies of September

will fade to grey and night
will push in the boundaries

of daylight until winter tires
and God books a flight to JFK.

False Profit

My fingers struggle to collect
the broken pieces of silver and
regret; all I have for you are
pretty pearl and alabaster lies.

My heart is still, but can be
yours for a night if you will
let it rest when we’re through.

My better angels abandon me;
this appliqué heart on my sleeve.
Can you tattoo my chest with your
edged words and belief in love?

I am more Simon than Paul,
and want to buy your miracles,
for I’m tired of my magic spells.

If I hold you in my feeble arms
will you shrink or recognize
that I am just a man in search
of salvation and a place to rest.

Walk in the Park

Leafless
black-brown
branches
cut across the sky
like cracks
in the canopy
that
strobe light
the December sun
along the brittle white path.
Central Park
in winter
is staid
and
sorrowful;
the cold empty heart
of New York.

Sunset at Trestles

Daylight danced
with lengthening shadows
along the strand
as night pushed
slowly down
toward the horizon.

Eight hours
of waves and sun
had washed away
the work week, and
we collapsed in sandy piles
of smiles and salty skin.

Driftwood smoke
mingled with
misty sea air,
the sun teased,
then fell into
a waiting ocean.

I kissed you
for the first time,
and when the moon
winked from the East,
I thought that we
might fall in love.

The fire burned down to embers.

I searched for wood to stoke it.

Summer Blossoms

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Summer Blossoms

The sad skies of spring wept for 36 days,
life blood tears for the blooms of summer.
Shed of their winter garb and June’s gloom,
they sprout from the Manhattan sidewalk
all pale skin and pretty print dresses.

Beautiful “look at me” buds
on every corner fight for a flicker
of the sun’s attention. Their fragile
petals and long stems so eager
to be clipped, arranged with fine adornment
and loved on a dinning room table.

On every corner of the city, the scent
of new petals and flash of youthful colors
distract the eye. Alas; the pursuit
of summer blossoms is a young man’s game,
but I do so like to watch and recall
my fertile days afield.

Koko the Gorilla

“Darn darn floor bad bite; trouble trouble”

Is it a sign of things to come,
or has the time come for me to sign?

I stopped grunting long enough
to hear the door close.

What was it you said to me
on your way out?

You spoke to me in English,
French and Spanish at least that’s what
it looked like when I read your lips.

I was mute for far too long
and you only ever learned one sign.

I guess I’ll just have to ride
out this little quake alone
and hope my vocabulary
improves over time.

Scars in the Afterglow

Her skin still glistened wet,

with the remnants of ecstasy.

I, with the gentlest touch,

began to trace the scars

on her back with my fingers.

Slowly she drifted off

as I kissed her shoulder.

I savored the saltiness on my lips

and her scent filled my senses.

The motion of time gave way to stillness

as I continued to trace the scars.

She woke, and with a sad smile sighed,

“so that is how it’s supposed to be”.

She dressed quickly,

seductive red satin falling
delicately over the cicatrix maze

that was forever etched in my mind.

Persi in Mare

I watched sunrise

dance with shadow

among the spires

of midtown; a light

and dark ballet

of times tireless march,

the promise of a new day.

I set a note adrift

on the outbound current

of the east river

addressed to you

on the endless ocean,

“Good luck on your journey,

fair winds and following seas”.

I took the ferry from

the Battery Terminal

and watched the glint

of the midday sun

skip across the water

in staccato flashes.

From the port side rail

I could see the eastern horizon;

that place where the sky

pours into the sea,

and I wept in the silence.

Killing Uriah

Temptation bathes under
the desert night sky
in a far off Jerusalem.

She is naked breast,
innocent eye and I,
I am David’s lust
from the roof tops
of Manhattan.

Smeared lipstick desire,
black lace regret
as sweat and screams
eclipse the sunrise.

Come this day, this ache,
this disregard of consequence
and the distant wail of Uriah.

Shadows will descend,
and a penitent man will weep
in sackcloth and ashes
but not tonight: Tonight
I am her King.

Notes on Poetry Composition

When I need to make sense of it all, I go back to the beginning.
I throw out the poetry text books and all my lecture notes.
I ignore the voice in my head that keeps repeating “imagery,
cadence, structure and rhyme”.

I go back to Bluebird and Roll the Dice. I go back to that place
where my passion was born, where the muse first gave me a wink
and the gods showed me words that could kick like a mule
or kiss me like no woman I had ever known.

I forget about submission guidelines and contributors’ copies.
I pour myself a tall glass of cheap scotch cut with ice
and drink until I don’t give a shit, until I’m ready to wipe my ass
with rejection notes and can vomit up years of advice.

It’s then that I remember the women I’ve fucked
and the ones that have fucked me. I think about the pain
and failure that defines me then I take another sip and say
“but I’m still here”, and I smile at the gentle tinkle of ice and glass.

Be Holden

John Lennon
was shot on a
Monday night
falls fast in the
perilous city
escape can be
difficult after
the sun goes
down on her
and she moans
in surrender
unto Caesar
that which is
not God's dead
after all the news
that's fit reported
that too decades
before Chapman
went looking
for the ducks

At Last: Babylon

I told you I would write,
but morning after promises
rarely make it to sunset.
On a night before,
we wrestled in the fertile sands
along the Euphrates
in an exchange
of vodka nicotine kisses,
ebb and flow. You lied
and said I was your first
but Darius and Alexander
had left their marks
long before I drank
from your fetid waters.

Harlot that you were,
I loved you, even as
your gardens withered
and the sands began
to devour your beauty.
When I saw the note
on your bedroom wall
I ran for the Tigris
afraid of the imminent
devastation of you;
of us.

I made for Lagash
without a backward glance.
With the thunder shake,
and screams in my ear,
I found my way to safety,
and the pure waters of home.
I know my missive is late
but I carried it by hand.
A promise kept
if only to your memory
and the shifting sand.

A Hard Spring

Tepid,
neutral grey
and awash
in April tears:
Buildings
streaked
with the soot
of a hundred
years. The heart
of the city
is stainless steal
and does not
love the weak
or the broken
hearted.

Better save
your sorrow
for Philadelphia
brother
because
no one
can hear
you cry
in Times Square.
Just touch up
your mask
and pray
the cracks
don't show;
smile as they
pass you by
and have
another drink.

Hollow Monday

Faces lined
by 27 years
on the LIRR,
lean together,
hang on straps
and litter
the seats
of the Sea Beach
Express.

Each mile
a stretch
of life
metho-
dically
extracted
as payment
for a house
in Hauppauge
and weekends
down the shore.

Life is
very long—but
death lasts
forever;
there are
no eyes here
and smiles
only ride
on Friday.

Dreary
hostility
and perpetual
motion replace
purpose and passion
but the sacraments
demand tribute
and we have
taxes to pay.

Pome Eighty One (81)

Daydreams turn to weak
aspirations long before
the monthly bills come
due you spend your time
wisely or did I see you
ask for change--Absurd
SoHo poets don’t think
so you better watch out
or you may drown in the
stream of consciousness
is the apex of Abraham’s
need I say more--Abstract
shun intangible images
as they are crutches for
the simple mind your
metaphors and similarly
beware the march I’d
love another drink--Imbibe

Mechanical Perturbation

From three thousand miles away
a heartbeat is difficult to detect.
The insulation of distance mutes
the sound of sinus rhythms as they fade.

My first car had a bad fuel pump,
the diaphragm membrane developed
a hole and the car began to lose power.
As the hole grew, the engine got weaker
until one day it just stopped.

The day you gave me my first “A”
I think my heart skipped a beat.
The wall of doubt had its first crack
and you’d handed me the hammer.

A new fuel pump for a 1963 VW Bus
is not a stock item so I had to wait
almost a week for the part to arrive.
I used the extra time to change
the oil and adjust the valves.

The first heart transplant took place
in 1964. For lack of a suitable donor
they used a chimpanzee heart;
the patient lived for a little over an hour.

If they can't find a donor, your heart
may stop before I hear it beat again.
Cedars-Sinai is apparently out of stock,
and chimp hearts are no longer used.
I’m not sure how to fill the wait time.

I got rid of the VW bus years ago,
replacement fuel pump and all.
The wall is mostly rubble now;
all I’m left with is this hammer,
and three thousand miles of silence.